GIFT  OF 
Class   of   1900 


Uittlr  f  ilia 


ffitttl?  fills 


Published  by  the  Guild  of  First  Congregational  Church,   Oakland.  California. 
Christmas,    1920 


•••-•xi&i*  •&.w»/ 


making  no  claim  to  being  poetry,  are  the  output  of  idle 
but  profitable  hours,  some  written  on  the  summer  slopes  of 
Mount  Rainier — some  on  a  dusty  transcontinental  train. 

They  have  only  one  merit — sincerity  on  the  part  of  one 

"Who,  in  the  love  of  nature, 

Holds  communion  with  her  visible  forms." 


THE  LITTLE  HILLS 

He  made  the  hills,  the  little  hills,— 

I  praise  His  name  for  that; 
The  hill  of  Zion,  that  He  wjlls 

As  much  as  Ararat!  *  , *  •  "•  * 


For  this  I  see; -that, mountains,  .high  .  t     • 
Are  stern  arid  .epic)  jan^jgr'ay'V'? ; 

The  little  hills  are  soft  and  shy, 
They  bid  me  come  and  play. 

The  mountains  have  their  crowns  of  snow, 

Their  ice-fields  dazzling  bright; 
On  little  hills  the  poppies  grow, 

And  fields  of  daisies  white. 

On  mountain  tops  I  see  the  storm, 
The  rough  winds  rage  aloft; 

On  little  hills  the  showers  form, 
And  breezes  whisper  soft. 

On  mountain  peaks  where  all  things  freeze 

There  grows  scarce  anything; 
But  on  the  hills  are  noble  trees 

Where  all  the  birds  may  sing. 

The  mountains  are  so  high  and  rough, 
They  fill  my  heart  with  fear; 

The  little  hills  are  near  enough 
To  make  them  very  dear. 

I  would  not  be  a  mountain  proud, 

Above  the  hills  below; 
Nor  have  my  head  above  the  cloud, 

In  wind  and  cold  and  snow. 

I'd  rather  be  a  tiny  hill, 

Not  far  from  any  one, 
Where  lambs  might  play  at  their  sweet  will, 

And  little  rivers  run. 

Dear  Lord, — give  me  a  lowly  heart, 

Content  to  do  Thy  will; 
Let  me  not  play  a  mountain's  part, — 

Make  me  a  liittle  hill! 


A  SONG  OF  THE  INDIAN  SUMMER 

I  sing  a  song  of  the  Indian  summer, 

Of  the  gladsome,  sad-some  Autumn  weather, 

Of  the  gray-gold,  brown-gold  gay  October, — 
O  come,  let  us  sing  and  shout  together! 

I  sing  a  song  of  the  Indian  summer, 

Of  the  crackling,  snapping,   frosty  weather, 

Of  the  hazy,  lazy,  sweet  October, — 
O  come,  let  us  run  and  play  together! 

Of  the  fruit  trees,  nut  trees,  chestnut,  pippin, 
Of  the  russet  fields  where  the  lambs  are  skippin', 

Of  prickly  burr  and  glossy  fur, — 
O  come,  let  us  skip  and  dance  together! 

Of  the  star-ful,  joyful,  silvery  moonlight, 
Of  the  ghostly,  shivery,  quivery    twilight, 
Of  fog  and  mist,  of  paths  that  twist, — 
O  come,  let  us  clasp  our  hands  together! 

Of  the  mournful,  tuneful,  minor  weather, 
Of  the  crying,  dying,  dead  October, 

Of  the  winds  that  creep  as  soft  as  a  feather, — 
O  come,  let  us  weep  and  smile  together! 

Of  the  gifts  of  God  and  the  crimson  glory, 
Of  the  closing  year  and  the  finished  story, 

Of  hope  and  love,  and  the  stars  above, — 
O  come,  let  us  kneel  and  pray  together! 


AUTUMN  HYMN 

1  see  the  golden  glory  of  the  fading  autumn  leaf, 
A  Hand  Divine  is  painting  them  in  hues  beyond  belief, — 
In  crimson,  brown  and  purple  like  trappings  of  a  chief; 
For  Time  is  rolling  on. 

The  New  Year  found  us  frozen,  every  tree  was  bare  and 

chill, 

And  the  icy  swords  of  winter  flashed  aloft  on  every  hill. 
But  the  spark  of  hope  within  us  bade  us  battle  witti  good 

will; 
For  Time  was  rolling  on. 

In  the  springtime  earth  was  bursting  with  the  thrill  of  new- 
born life, 

Hushed  were  all  the  echoes  of  the  winter's  cruel  strife, 
With  the  promise  of  the  harvest  every  new-plowed  field  was 

rife; 
For  Time  was  rolling  on. 

Then  summer,  royal  summer,  all  her  baskets  filled  with  store, 
Warmed  us,  charmed  us,  then  alarmed  us, — tho  her  bounty 

more  and  more, — 

For  "the  summer  soon  is  ended,  and  the  harvest  quickly  o'er," 
As  Time  goes  rolling  on. 

Thus  I  round  the  year  with  goodness  and  with  mercy  find 

it  crowned, 

Every  season  sings  His  kindness  all  the  shining  year  around, 
Let  praises  fill  His  temple  and  thro  all  the  world  resound, 
As  Time  goes  rolling  on. 


MOUNTAIN  VOICES 

Far,  far  away,  their  snowy  peaks  I  see, 
Far,  far  away,  their  voices  call  to  me, 

And  in  my  soul  the  echoes  surge  and  roll, — 
I  hear  the  mountain  voices  calling 
Softly  to  me. 

CHORUS 

I'm  coming,  I'm  coming. 

And  my  heart  is  light  and  free, — 
I  hear  the  mountain  voices  calling 
Softly  to  me. 

Nearer  I  come  to  where  the  snow  fields  gleam, 
Higher  I  climb,  my  mate  the  singing  stream, 

And  as  I  rise  close  to  the  azure  skies, 
My  heart  leaps  high  at  voices  calling 
Softly  to  me. 

Now  over  crags,  still  up  I  press  and  on, 
Still  step  by  step  where  icy  dangers  yawn, 

Where  glistening  slopes  like  shining  blessed  hopes 
Invite  and  lure,  their  voices  calling 
Softly  to  me. 

On  till  at  last  I  stand  on  topmost  tip. 

Ah  then  my  song  bursts  forth  from  joyful  lip; 

And  kin  with  cloud,  my  soul  with  rapture  bowed, 
I  hush  my  heart  to  hear  God  calling 
Softly  to  me. 


Photomount 

Pamphlet 

Binder 

Gay  lord  Bros.,  Inc., 

Mafeers 
Stockton,  Calif. 

PAT.  JAN.  2).  1908 


886381 


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